


Listen to my emotions

by Alili_Lunamoon



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Classical Music RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Piano Concert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:55:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23674207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alili_Lunamoon/pseuds/Alili_Lunamoon
Summary: A concert, a declaration, and a kiss.
Relationships: Frédéric Chopin/Franz Liszt
Comments: 12
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

How many times had he listened to him playing?

How many times had he watched those fingers caress the keys, his face more serious than ever focused on making no mistakes?

The melodies, no, the notes, each note that Chopin played were divine sounds for him.

Whatever the song was, his sensitive heart always expressed himself through his notes. His sadness, his melancholy, his regrets, many feelings that Liszt had known but which thus made him confused. Through Chopin's melodies, feelings were transformed, amplified. At least that was how Liszt felt them.

Hidden behind the thick and heavy red curtains, he glanced at the public. A large audience attended the performance of the pianist, seated comfortably in their soft red armchair.

If some seemed troubled, most of the spectators were listening to the pianist without an apparent expression. Some even seemed bored or even asleep. Those ones, Liszt would have gladly make them wake up with a slap if he didn't have his common sense. 

Instead, he closed his eyes. He listened to the song, savoring each note, short or long, high or low. Yet, he heard it many times. At rehearsals, during these visits to his home, at other concerts, private or public. But each time, his heart expressed different feelings through music, and each time, they reached Liszt's heart.

Sometimes Chopin composed melodies, just for him. Partitions too complicated to him to play them, but that inspiration dictated to him. So he dedicated them to Liszt, and challenged him to play them. A challenge he always managed to win.

He smirked. If Salieri and Mozart had been complementary in the opposition of their music, he was opposed to Chopin by the resemblance of theirs. And even when he picked up songs Chopin had written for himself, he played them better than him. Constant battles, which he always won, because only he participated in them.

The applause of the audience brought him out of his thoughts. His counterpart had finished playing, and he didn't even noticed. The music must have been engraved enough in his mind for him to no longer hear it stop.

Although everyone applauded at the same time, Liszt was convinced he applauded first. He was tempted to join his colleague, who got up from his chair, and was now bowing to the cheering audience, but he knew that his presence would cause cries of hysteria from young women and would disturb the room. He has to abstain, even if it was difficult. He sighed. It was not his fault if he was born so handsome and with this much talent. 

It took the modest concert hall a long time to empty itself. People discussed, took there time. Liszt didn't really paid attention. His eyes were on Chopin, who had returned to his piano, and was tidying up his scores with a surprising calm. The calm that characterized him so well.

Once the room was finally empty, he approached him, and could not help but went to embrace him. He barely heard Chopin say his name as he nuzzled his face in his neck.

\- Franz... Franz!...

He ended up raising his head, and looked at the pole with bright eyes, full of admiration and bliss. Chopin wore the most serious expression, yet he couldn't help but find him appealing. Maybe it was those thin lips, or that determined look.

"Franz", he repeated, "did you like my concert? Did I play well?" He questioned.

"Better than the last time," Liszt admitted sincerely. "But you're still playing too slowly."

He held him in his arms, and his counterpart does not seem to really care. Trough he seemed annoyed by what he said. 

"It is done on purpose, Franz. If I play slowly, it is because the rhythm of the music is already slow. I played sentimental music, not the opening of The marriage of Figaro. Music is art, and can be beautiful in many ways..."

"It is also a challenge. All these notes, these melodies that come to our mind, we must not cherish them : we must manage them."

"If you think the same way in matter of love, I understand why you never keep a single lover."

Liszt frowned. He let go of him to cross his arms. It was not very gentle.

Then he smirked, and said proudly :

"Perhaps I am too fiery in love, however your dear Amantine seems to appreciate this, since she made advances to me."

He hoped to hurt him a little bit, to outrun him, to shock him, to make him angry, however Chopin just looked impassive.

"I see."

"Do you not believe me?"

"I believe you."

"So why did you not react?"

Chopin finished putting away his scores, which he took against him, and looked up at him, raising an eyebrow, an apparent lassitude on his face. 

"How would you like me to react?"

"I'm telling you that your loved one tried to charm me, and it makes you unmoved!"

"Amantine is not my wife - although I would love it. I have no rights over his heart and even less over his words. Besides, she already admitted to me that she likes you."

"Also, what woman do not like me~?"

Chopin only sighed, and rolled his eyes. This, he had already heard it far too many times.

"You hurt women. But I know you enough to know that they hurt you too..."

Liszt put a lock of his own hair behind his ear, and went to put his hand on Chopin's cheek while plunging his eyes into his.

"You know, only you makes me feel all these emotions, Chopinetto. I complain about the slowness and the sweetness of your music, but it is because I would like to feel it even more in me."

"...Was it a hint?"

"N-Not at all! In my heart, if you prefer!"

"I never know, with you."

Liszt took a deep breath, while keeping his hand on his cheek.

"Look, I'm sincere. Your concert was magnificent. If I found it slow these are just my tastes. But aesthetically... no music is more beautiful than yours, Frédéric. Not even Mozart's or Beethoven's. Not even mine! You know, I could listen to you playing for hours. Well that's what I'm already doing, by the way..."

Chopin couldn't help but smile, even laugh lightly.

"Yours is beautiful too," he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. "When it is not intended to break the piano's keyboard." 

Liszt replied to this with a groan. How ungrateful!

"We should go home," proposed Chopin, who was starting to feel cold, and to feel alone in this large empty concert hall, plunged in darkness apart from the stage.

"You are right. I'll take you home."

He took a few steps, but he felt Chopin grab his arm and stop him.

"Hold on. I have one thing to give you before going."

He moved closer to him, and came to seal their lips with a small smile. A soft, chaste kiss that lasted only a second. They both blushed in strange innocence.

"Thank you for enjoying my concert, Franz. If you have nothing planned, tonight, I would like to invite you to my house, and I would like us to play with four hands like the last time. I also have a bottle of Bordeaux waiting for me."

"As you wish, Chopinetto", Liszt smiled, taking his arm, obviously even more charmed than he was before. "Aren't you afraid for your piano?" He joked.

"I'll make sure he stay secure", he laughs, going outside, facing the dark night, a few streetlights and an almost deserted Paris.

He tighten his arm, and his scores in his other arm. No night could be better than the one ahead.


	2. Chapter 2

"I am going to die..."

"Stop saying nonsense, Chopinetto. It's just a fever."

For the umpteenth time, Chopin had fallen ill, and once again Liszt had to take care of him. And also once again, he had made a whole scene to not let him leave his side, even to go into the next room. Liszt found himself desperately reassuring his companion, when he could have done so many more interesting things instead. No, not play or compose, but contemplate the pretty women in the Jadin du Luxembourg, for example. On this beautiful sunny afternoon, it was the occasion. On this beautiful summer afternoon... there was only Chopin who really was able to catch a cold in the middle of summer.

"It could be typhus, or worse... the plague!" He worried ridiculously.

"Of course..." Liszt laughed.

Rolling his eyes, he continued to press the water-soaked handkerchief against his forehead. After a short while, he took it off, dipped the handkerchief again in water, and passed it over his cheeks and then all over his face.

"That should refresh you a bit."

"I... I see the light..."

"That's normal, it's the Sun. Do you remember the Sun? He gets up in the morning, goes to bed in the evening..."

The same sun he would have liked to enjoy.

"Stop making fun of me", growled Chopin, visibly annoyed to have to endure the taunts of his companion in addition to his pain.

"You're so dramatic, too. Why do you worry like this? It's just a simple fever, and you had many."

"And you have no compassion! Understand my suffering! Besides, you never get sick, how is that?!"

"When the disease sees my talent and my beauty, it does not want to spoil them and prefers to move away", he said proudly.

"Of course... I should have guessed." He sighed wearily, rolling his eyes.

Liszt observed him for a long time. He then ran his hand through his hair, a gentle gesture that made him close his eyes for a moment.

"I want to kiss you, Frédéric."

"You're going to get sick."

"Have you already forgotten what I just told you? Illness will not reach me."

Chopin had no time to answer as lips reached his more ardently than ever. No, Liszt never kissed him like this. It had always been simple, tender kisses. Now... it was something else. It was much more passionate.

He let him do, probably way too long, and ended up pushing him away, out of breath. He wanted to ask him a thousand questions, but his confusion, coupled with the headache that thrilled him, kept him from thinking about it properly.

He rubbed his temples, wincing. He hated being sick, and God knew it happened to him often. At least Liszt was by his side. More than just being sick, he hated being alone in this state. It even frightened him. What if he died, alone? Without anyone to reassure him? In a burst of inner panic, he grabbed Liszt's hand, and squeezed it.  
He must have taken it as an invitation, because he kiss his forehead, squeezing his hand in return.

"Calm down. You know I'm here. I want to take care of you, my Chopinetto."

"I hate to be treated like a child."

Amantine is doing it enough... he wanted to add.

"I don't treat you like a child. I treat you like a person who is sick."

"Then help me recover."

Liszt smirked.

"Alright... my immune body will heal you in no time!"

With his words, he abandoned his wooden chair and climbed on the bed next to him, to take him in his arms. Chopin tried to push him away, without much success, already weakened.

"Go away! First, this reasoning is stupid, and two, I already feel hot enough!"

"You just need to sleep, comfortably installed, and that damn fever will go away."

"And this nausea, this headache, these cramps, will they also go away?" He grumbled, giving up and putting his gead on his shoulder.

"Of course. The great Franz Liszt is taking care of you, you can't heal any faster."

He turned slightly to catch the same handkerchief as before and dip it in the bowl of water. He then pressed it to his face again.

"Maybe bring a doctor would be more efficient..." suggested Chopin, who was turning white again.

"No, no. Don't waste your money on this. I'm here, and I take care of you. If you need something, just tell me."

Chopin took a deep breath.

"You're right. it's just a fever. No reason to worry," he tried to convince himself.

"Exactly."

Liszt put down the handkerchief without paying too much attention, and kissed his forehead, then his cheeks, then his lips. He would have went down to his neck if Chopin started to cough violently. Liszt stepped aside, suddenly alerted, and grabbed a glass of water from the bedside table to gave him.

Chopin drank it in one go. Then he grimaced. It didn't even attenuated his thirst, and his throat still felt like it was burning.

He lay down properly, and snuggled up against Liszt, coughing again. It was a bit too warm, but it was comfortable. More comfortable than he imagined...

He gently closed his eyes. At least those pains won't follow him in his dreams. He vaguely felt his companion stroke his hair, but he was already too sleepy to really notice. He felt so cold, all of a sudden... Liszt must have felt him shiver, for he covered him up to his face with his blankets, and tightened his embrace.

"Rest, my Chopinetto. I'll watch over your sleep, he added with a smile."

He whispered in response a barely audible "thank you".

Liszt rested his head on the pillow and looked at him. He could stare at him for hours ... much longer than any good woman in a pretty dress.


End file.
